Dreams
by xSakuraBlossom
Summary: When Yamamoto awakes, Gokudera is gone. Angst, shounen ai, character death. One-shot.


Disclaimer: I do not own KHR.

When Yamamoto awakes, Gokudera is gone.

He looks at the empty bed space beside him, and longingly reaches out an arm. It passes over cool blankets, blankets that would be refreshing on any other summer morning but instead only remind him that Gokudera isn't there.

Fighting the urge to cry, Yamamoto rolls out of bed- avoiding the side where Gokudera should be- and begins his usual morning routine. Brushing his teeth. Changing into his uniform. Making his bed. Grabbing the bamboo sword by the door.

He pauses then, ruining his usual mindless motions. Hesitantly, he reaches to the desk, and picks up a small red tube lying there. Closing his eyes, he just stands there for a moment, clutching the empty tube to his chest.

The moment passes, and Yamamoto recovers quickly. He slips the tube into his pocket, and the sadness on his face slips away, as though he slid off- or on- a mask.

Yamamoto exits the room all smiles, because hey, it's a sushi restaurant, and nobody wants a melancholy chef. Besides, even if the place is small, business is booming (or at least, it will once lunch rolls around) and he needs to prepare for it.

Despite that, the red tube in his apron pocket bumps against him once in a while, a heavy reminder of what was missing from his day. From his life.

Yamamoto is young, younger than his father was when he opened this store, but more than experienced enough to make sushi. The movements are as natural to Yamamoto as breathing. He barely needs to think as he takes the orders from Kyoko, makes the sushi, arranges it. Kyoko is his waitress- she takes orders, delivers them to him, makes sure sushi goes to the right places, collects bills. Everything but the actual making of sushi.

Mindless as the work is for Yamamoto, he is used to letting his mind roam while his hands form the familiar cones and rolls that they always make. Usually, it's a good thing. The customers bustle in, and Yamamoto smiles mindlessly and makes mindless small talk and makes mindless sushi and dreams.

But today is different. Today, Yamamoto can't make his hands do what he wants. The rolls come out deformed, the ingredients misplaced, one half overstuffed, the other half mere rice and seaweed. Today, his restaurant is quiet- much more quiet than he's ever seen before.

It's the middle of the afternoon when Kyoko finally slips away, and Yamamoto raises his head to see an empty restaurant.

The "OPEN" sign has been flipped over. His restaurant, as far as anyone can tell, is officially closed for the day.

Yamamoto knows the signs. He knows what this means.

Briefly, he shuts his eyes, practically praying that it's not that time again. It's not that day again…

But when he opens his eyes, his worst fears have come true.

It's been one year since he last saw him. He never really forgave Yamamoto for what happened three years ago. How could he? No matter how anyone tried to justify it, it was Yamamoto's fault.

Even so, on this day, on this one day, they put aside their old hate and come together for the one thing they have in common.

Yamamoto swallows hard. "Yo, Tsuna."

Vongola Decimo pins him with a cold stare, letting the silence settle around them like a stifling blanket. But, in the end, he responds. "Hello, Yamamoto."

Tsuna's face has grown cold and hard. Time and pain have forced him to change, to grow into a true Mafia Boss. Yamamoto can't help but think longingly of those days when the mafia was only a game, when they were all together and so, so happy.

But of course, Yamamoto knows it's not a game now. He's known for three years- maybe longer, but three years ago was when he truly understood it in his soul.

Tsuna strides purposefully into the restaurant and sits at his usual spot. It's at the largest table Yamamoto owns. It's a rectangular table, which can seat 8- though he only ever puts 7 chairs there. It's never used. To be honest, most people consider it a waste of space. Yamamoto has been asked many times to get rid of the table- he could seat more customers if he did, it doesn't fit the cozy atmosphere of the restaurant at all, nobody ever even uses it.

But Yamamoto has never given in, and he never will. That table will remain there as long as he lives.

As is his right, Tsuna sits at the head of the table, and Yamamoto naturally slides into the first seat on his left.

The seat to Tsuna's right is conspicuously empty- it has been for three years. But then, most of the seats have been empty for that long, perhaps even longer. There are memories here too painful for many of them, and too unimportant for others. So Yamamoto and Tsuna are the only ones who remain.

Tsuna traces a random pattern in the wood before him. His eyes remain fixed on the table as he asks slowly, "How are you holding up?"

Yamamoto once again fights the urge to cry. He can barely get the words out past the lump in his throat, but he says at last, "I… I'm trying."

"Are you," Tsuna murmurs.

_Not hard enough,_ remains unspoken in the air between them. _Maybe, if you had tried harder…_

Yamamoto shuts his eyes. "I'm sorry."

Both of them know he means it, but both of them also know it's useless.

Sorry doesn't bring the dead back, after all.

Tsuna lets out a soft sigh and leans back in his chair, eyes finally coming up to stare straight into Yamamoto's eyes. "You've been drinking, I hear."

Yamamoto slides his gaze away. He can't look Tsuna in the eyes, can't take the accusations head on. "A little. I guess. Maybe a bit more than usual. It's that time of year."

Tsuna tilts his head. Even without looking, Yamamoto knows the expression. It's piercing, calculating. Cold. He saw enough of it before 3 years ago, back when he was still working with Tsuna. Back when he and Gokudera were still together.

Except back then, it was rarely directed at him. It was always reserved for enemies, for people threatening the peace that Tsuna had brought to his Familia, to his friends. In that order, for his Family had always come first in the end.

"Do you think Gokudera is happy with what you've done?"

Yamamoto says nothing. He knows the answer, and he knows that Tsuna knows he knows. After all, he's asked the same question for two years now.

Tsuna slams his hand on the table, but Yamamoto doesn't even flinch. "You bastard," Tsuna spits out. "3 years ago, Gokudera gave his life for you, and here you sit, wasting it away in a tiny sushi shop. There's nothing here but a lie for you! He won't come back. Neither one of them will."

And still, Yamamoto stays silent. But his hand twitches. He wants a drink. Badly.

Tsuna stands abruptly. "I'm sorry," he murmurs, completely at odds with his outburst. "It seems I am incapable of being civil with you. I had hoped for better, considering the day, but I don't think I have the willpower for it." He bows, turns on his heel, and strides out, ringing the little bell above the doorway as he does so.

The instant he leaves, Yamamoto runs for the fridge. On the bottom shelf, because the top shelf is reserved for sushi ingredients, there is a stash of vodka. Yamamoto reaches for the bottle. It's almost empty, he notes critically. He should really restock soon.

But even though the bottle's almost dry, there's just enough to get him drunk. Just enough so that he forgets the past. Just enough that he can believe his father wasn't killed, that he didn't run blindly to try and save him, that Gokudera didn't sacrifice himself to save Yamamoto from the trap he never saw.

Just enough that Yamamoto can escape to his dreams, where his father runs the store and Gokudera sleeps soundly beside him, smooth skin shining in the moonlight.

But when Yamamoto awakes, as always, Gokudera is gone.

Note: I apologize for the rather oddly written story. There were quite a few things I meant to put in that I didn't end up saying, and a few points I meant to expound on but never found a place to do so. Oh well. Just wanted this to be done.

Anyways, hope you liked it!


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